Chapter 1
464 Words
Tom Darcy was giving it large about van Graal, the new manager of Man United. He wasn’t shouting.
Yet.
But he was very loud and verging on aggressive. Like this:
“You have to remember Ferguson wasn’t successful when he started.”
His companion, a small man with a small tone, nodded, staring into his pint, hoping it might help.
It didn’t.
Darcy finished his third Jameson, belched, said,
“See, managers do be playing the long game.”
A man farther along the bar, dressed in a black denim shirt, black jeans, visibly blanched. He had a long slender face with a slight scar above the right eye and it seemed to twitch now in annoyance. He lifted his tonic water, took a bitter sip. He wanted a double gin but it could wait. Duty must. Darcy said, more roared,
“Gotta point Percy at the porcelain.”
The man didn’t look but he was fairly sure that Darcy winked. He took a deep breath then followed Darcy. Darcy was zipping up then moved to wash his large hands. He clocked the man enter but he knew not to make eye contact in a men’s lavatory.
Thought,
“WTF?”
As the man stood right by the basin, he snapped,
“Help yah?”
(Not full on but enough to let menace spill over the tone.)
The man seemed to focus, as if collating thoughts, then,
“The Yahoos that make up this city, they can tell you the offside rule but as to what a split infinitive is? Forget it. Now when you were rather haranguing your comrade at the bar, you said . . .”
He paused, as if ensuring he got it correct, then,
“Do be!”
Darcy laughed, a mix of relief and disbelief, this punter was simply another nutter in a city chockablock with madness. He leaned back, mocked,
“Dooby do bee do.”
The man lashed out with his right hand, throwing Darcy back against the wall, intoned,
“You cretin, you mock? Grammar is with us from the fifth century BC, from India. You probably think the great subcontinent gave us bus conductors and curry. When language is corrupted, it is but a small step to chaos. Look at
X Factor
Fifty Shades of Grey
chick lit
and . . .”
He had to catch a breath, such was his indignation, then,
“Texting.”
He grabbed Darcy by his hair and began to systematically smash his face against the porcelain bowl, and in an almost singsong voice, said,
“I before e but not after . . .”
He was still reeling off the rules as his hand released the limp body, which slid to the floor. He looked down at it, as if surprised to see it, then, sighing, pulled himself together, said,
“The center cannot hold.”
He took a single white card from his jacket, laid it almost reverently atop the destroyed face. It had one letter, in bold black:
A
Extra adverbs, used for emphasis, are called intensifiers.
E.g. . . . he was very dead.
- Writer
